


Drag Him Down

by hideeho



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christopher Diaz is the MVP, Depression, Eddie Diaz Week 2020, Group Therapy, M/M, Normalize Therapy, One-on-One Therapy, Support Groups, Supportive Buck, TW: Suicide (minor character), TW: mentions of suicidal thoughts, Therapy is a Process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24753790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hideeho/pseuds/hideeho
Summary: “I have to admit, I didn’t think I’d see you back here again outside of you being forced to see me,” Frank states plainly.“Neither did I.” They both smile and Eddie forces himself to try to relax. It doesn’t work.Or; Eddie is learning to admit he needs help. Sometimes help comes in the form of therapy.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 288
Collections: Eddie Diaz Week 2020





	Drag Him Down

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING** : This story involves the team responding to a suicide, as well as suicidal thoughts and depression. Please do not read if this will be upsetting to you. Here are a list of sources if you need [someone to talk to.](https://www.therapyroute.com/article/helplines-suicide-hotlines-and-crisis-lines-from-around-the-world) You are worthy and you are needed.

They’re too late before they even get into the truck. 

They can’t save everyone, it’s the one guarantee in a job made up of random chaos. They all know the reality of what they do, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Most days he can brush off the bad; put the grief and regret in his carefully sealed box of horrors in the back of his mind. The whispers of ghosts come out to mock him occasionally, sweat soaked nightmares that act to highlight the cracks in his walls. 

What’s one more ghost in his collection of horrors? 

The man’s limbs are twisted at odd angles, bones piercing flesh from the force of impact. He jumped, but not from high enough up. Another story or two and he would have died on impact. Instead he is bleeding out slowly, bits of his skull exposed to the unrelenting Santa Ana winds. 

Eddie knows this is not a matter of saving his life; this about making him comfortable before he goes. 

Chim is injecting him with morphine, Hen actively trying to bandage his wounds even if in her heart she must know it's a lost cause. The man starts flailing at her care, skin ripping at the motion. Eddie is quick to move in, holding the man down as best he can. There is nowhere for his hands to go that won’t cause further pain.

“Sir, sir, we need you to stop moving. We’re going to get you to a hospital, but we need you to lay still,” Hen soothes, shooting a worried look at the expanding pool of blood beneath the man. 

A flash of silver against his neck catches his eyes. Eddie reaches down, the familiar weight of dog tags settling in his palm. 

_We’re going down. Diaz. Diaz._

“Eddie?” The feel of Buck’s hand jolts him back into awareness as he flinches away from the touch, forcing his attention back at the patient. He knows without looking that Buck is shooting him a concerned look, but he doesn’t have time for that now. 

He’s not the one bleeding out in front of them. 

“I know that look,” the man laughs, voice wet around the blood in his mouth as his eyes look straight through him. “That’s where I go too.”

_You don’t know shit,_ is what he wants to tell him. “I need you to settle down,” Eddie barks instead, opting for a tone previously left behind in Afghanistan. It works. The man stills, ingrained obedience from days long gone, his eyes glossy and strained with pain. 

“ _Please,_ ” the man begs. 

He doesn’t want to be saved. 

Eddie takes his hand off the man, motioning for Chim and Hen to step back. They couldn’t save him, they were merely delaying the inevitable and they all knew it. He ignores their questioning looks, something in his expression making them stand down. 

“Eddie, we need to get this man to a hospital,” Buck says gently, kneeling down beside him.

“It’s okay, Williams. It will be over soon. You can rest now,” Eddie assures him, giving him the decency of looking him in the eyes. This guy was a military man, he could grant him that respect. “It’s almost over.” 

“Eddie,” Buck tries again, looking at him with an expression that is too full of concern and pity. He’s _fine_. He’s not the one who jumped. 

Eddie ignores him. Doesn’t trust himself not to snap. His anger isn’t at Buck. He doesn’t even know why he’s angry. Buck turns to Chim and Hen for backup and it stings, even when they shake their heads softly that there is nothing else they can do. 

It doesn’t take long for him to go; pink skin morphing into the sickly grey of death. He tucks the dog tags back into the man’s shirt. 

He thinks of Greggs who only wanted to get home to his girls and died trying to get back there. 

This guy got to come home yet he does this. His judgment and bitterness isn’t fair, he knows it isn’t fair, knows under slightly different circumstances this could have been him. Still, anger is easier than anything else so he lets his judgment bubble hot and bitter as he walks away, Buck’s eyes burning holes into his back as he goes. 

The rest of the team gets to work cleaning up the scene, leaving him to rub his palms raw against his pants in an attempt to be free of the blood staining his skin. 

He didn’t know this man. 

They don’t share some unspoken bond because they were both served. He doesn’t even know if this guy had ever been deployed, even if his gut tells him he must have been. 

He was nothing to him. 

Nothing but a ghost to follow him home.

* * *

“What did he mean by that’s where he goes too?”

“How am I supposed to know, Buck,” Eddie deflects, actively avoiding the knowing look on Buck’s face. It has been two hours since the call and Buck won’t drop it. The more he tries to push it away the more Buck storms forward, latching on and refusing to let go. “He was out of his mind on pain and morphine. It was just gibberish.”

“But he seemed—”

“Buck,” he pleads, honest to god _pleads_ , combing a hand through his hair roughly. “I know you’re just trying to help, but drop it, okay? Please.” 

He does for a while. 

But it’s Buck, and Buck can’t let anything go once he gets something in his mind. 

“That was like the fourth call involving a suicidal vet we’ve had this year,” Buck says at lunch, tearing into a roll like a rabid racoon. Eddie wants nothing more than to avoid this conversation, but dinner is mandatory and he knows there is no way to escape without exposing himself to further questions. Silent ones from the others, pointed ones from Buck. “That’s weird, right?”

“Vets are at a much higher risk of suicide than the average person,” Bobby points out and Eddie can no longer taste whatever it was he had taken a bite of. 

“One every seventy-two minutes.” He doesn’t realize he was the one to say it until they all turn to look at him. 

“Every seventy-two minutes, that’s—” Buck begins, clearly trying to figure out the math in his head with no success. 

“Twenty a day. Twenty vets a day kill themselves,” he says flatly, forcing another bite of food into his mouth. It tastes like ash on his tongue. 

An uncomfortable silence settles heavy over the table. He’s safe, he is sitting with his family, but his body is on high alert, tense as if waiting for an ambush he knows is coming, but is impossible to avoid. 

“I watched a news report about people who jumped off the Golden State Bridge and survived,” Buck starts and he can feel the eyes looking at him as if gauging his reaction. As if his opinion mattered any more than their’s. As if they were linking a connection that wasn’t fucking there. 

And why would he even watch something about that?

Then it clicks. Buck had a bad call. He lost someone and ended up on the news for his trouble. Of course he dived into research afterward. It was so very Buck. 

“Buck, I think it’s time we changed topics,” Cap states slowly, sensing the rising tension. 

“I’m just saying, the one thing they all had in common was regret. They all said as soon as they had jumped off they wish they hadn’t done it,” Buck continues, and Eddie knows he’s trying to help in his own way. Or maybe he doesn’t know what else to say. Either way, he finds himself gripping his fork until his knuckles are white. 

“And maybe some people just want to die,” Eddie snaps, wincing at the sharpness. He’s not angry at Buck. He knows he’s not angry at Buck, but his body is wound tight and he’s so terribly close to snapping for reasons he doesn’t want to analyze. “I’m not hungry.” 

He walks away before he can say or do something he regrets. He can hear Buck call after him, but he doesn’t follow. No one follows. 

He tells himself that’s what he wants.

* * *

Buck won’t stop staring at him.

Oh, he thinks he’s being subtle. It’s cute, especially considering he’s about as subtle as a 6’2 golden retriever in a room made out of bubble wrap. 

At the station his looks itched at his skin, making him feel raw and exposed. In the safety of their home - his home- the looks act to ground him. His concern acting like a weighted blanket pressing him down and keeping him whole. Not that he’d ever tell him that. Not that he’d even know how. 

“Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“Oh course, Chris has been excited all week.”

“I know, but we had a long shift and you just seemed…”

“I know,” Eddie sighs, frustrated at his own failure to keep his shit together once again. How is he supposed to explain to Buck that he doesn’t need thirty feet of earth to feel like the earth is caving in on him? “I don’t know why...It was a long shift, like you said. Which is exactly why I need pizza and video games with my two favorite guys.”

“Yeah,” Buck asks, so hopeful and open, like he’s still surprised to hear that he’s Eddie’s best friend in the entire world. Which is ridiculous, best friend doesn’t even begin to cover what he is to him. 

“Yeah, now stop asking me about it and start helping me get everything ready.” It took awhile, but Eddie has finally gotten to the point he no longer feels guilty for asking Buck for help around his house. It made Buck feel accepted, like he was more than a guest waiting to be kicked out. If that’s what he needed then he was happy to give it to him. 

“It’s just....you know you can talk to me, right?” 

“Talk about what,” Chris asks, walking over to where Buck is standing to try to sneak a cookie. 

“Not until after dinner, mijo,” Eddie says with a knowing look at Buck who is already reaching in to grab him one. 

“Just one?”

“Yeah, Eddie, just one,” Buck pleads, tag teaming with his son without any mercy towards his attempts at parenting. 

“You can have one now or two later if you wait,” he sighs with a hand on his hip. Is it too early for a beer? 

Chris and Buck look at each other, seemingly having an entire conversation without saying a word. He smiles in spite of himself, feeling himself easing into the comfort of home and family. 

“We’ll wait, but maybe I can have chocolate milk for dinner,” Christopher asks hopefully and he knows damn well he’s being conned. 

“Deal,” he consents, finding it hard not to spoil his amazing son who asks for so little. 

“So what do you have to talk to Buck about,” his son asks again, looking between them innocently. 

“Oh, don’t worry, buddy, it’s just some grownup stuff,” Buck offers, obviously trying to spare him this conversation now that his son is involved. 

“Dad?”

Eddie wants to brush it off, to tell him it's nothing, but he has made a commitment to be more honest with his son. He’s so observant, much more than his father has ever been, and he knows when he’s being lied to or pushed aside. If he expects his son to be honest with him then he needs to offer some honesty in return. 

Doesn't make it any easier. 

Eddie kneels down so that he’s level with his son. “There was a really hard call today and it made me sad. Buck is just making sure I’m okay.”

“Why did it make you sad,” Chris hesitantly, as if trying to figure out why it had shaken him and not Buck. 

“He was a veteran, like me. Made me think of things that make me sad.”

“Oh,” Chris said, confusion still on his face as he reached forward to wrap his arms around his neck. Eddie pulled him closer, burying his face in the sweet smell of his son’s hair. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yeah buddy, I feel much better. Your hugs make everything better.” 

“But you’re still kind of sad?” Eddie feels the words like a punch to his chest. He was supposed to be stronger than this. His son had been through enough without him adding this to his pile. Still, he wants his son to know that it’s okay to not be okay sometimes. He wants to teach him lessons he wished someone had thought to teach him. 

“Yeah buddy, a little.” 

“About when you were at war?”

“Maybe. I think so,” Eddie tries, not quite sure himself why this particular call had crawled so viciously under his skin. 

“When Captain America got sad about the war he went to a support group. That’s where he met Sam! You should do that! Right, Buck?”

Buck looks like he swallowed an entire lemon, caught between a rock and a hard place simply by standing in the wrong room. “I think...Well, I mean, group therapy is quite popular for a reason. _Not_ that I’m saying it’s right for your dad. Or anyone! You know, everyone is different in what works for—”

“I’ll try it,” he says, surprising himself. “It’s important to try new things, right?”

“Right,” Chris cheers. “Unless it’s brussel sprouts.” Eddie chuckles which leads Buck to laughing. “Maybe you’ll find your Sam!”

“Hey, what about me,” Buck protests, huffing dramatically as he places his hands on his hips. 

“You’re his Bucky! You’re his _best_ friend.”

“Yeah, Buck. You’re my _best_ friend,” Eddie agrees, burying his smile in Chris’ hair at the way Buck’s cheeks turn pink.

* * *

It takes him three tries before he finally gets up the nerve to step out of his truck and walk into the meeting.

It gets easier after that. 

And harder. 

He’s still not comfortable talking about his feelings, most of the time he doesn’t, but sometimes he finds himself letting loose the threads that have him bound so tightly together. 

It helps that they’ve been through hell like him. That they have their own ghosts. 

He’d be lying to say he could listen to them all without judgment. He still fights the feeling of _I’m not like you_. Not that he’s better, but better at holding himself together. Better at pretending at least. 

Only that’s not really true, is it? How many of these men and women joined an actual fight club and nearly killed a man because it was easier to have the shit kicked out of them than talk about their feelings? 

That he was so fucking touch starved that he’d take a punch over nothing. 

That maybe he felt like he deserved it. Still deserves it. That martyrdom is easier than redemption for someone like him. 

“What about you, Eddie? Do you want to share with us what initially brought you to this group?”

_Nope._

“My son. I was having a bad day. I had a bad call,” he starts, telling himself he has to participate if he actually wants to make progress. “Suicide. A vet. Couldn’t shake it, I guess. He suggested I go to a support group like Captain America,” he says with a half laugh, not lost on how ridiculous it all was. “It was in one of the movies. Anyway, he has been through a lot. I’ve put him through a lot. I can’t expect him to seek help when he needs it if I’m not willing to do the same.” 

“Why do you think that call in particular stuck with you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was just the day? Maybe...Look, that guy could have been any of us. Who here hasn’t gone to that dark place at least once? Who hasn’t had one moment where they thought about—”

Judging by the looks on their faces a lot of people haven’t.

Fuck. 

The thing about this support group is that it’s a start, not an answer. It’s a start, but he needs more.

* * *

“I have to admit, I didn’t think I’d see you back here again outside of you being forced to see me,” Frank states plainly.

“Neither did I.” They both smile and Eddie forces himself to try to relax. It doesn’t work. 

He hates therapy. He hates talking about himself. He hates the way the therapist takes notes of all his shortcomings. His failings are his own. It’s not the fault of his parents, the war, Shannon, nothing and no one but himself. 

Talking about them feels like a betrayal. Admitting how things have affected him feels like an excuse. Frank is a never ending well of patience, but he doesn’t want patience. He wants a judge and jury. 

Still, it’s easier now. Group taught him how to broach subjects he had actively avoided. Hell, it showed him what he had been avoiding. It helped, knowing how to start. 

“We’ve been meeting for a few months now, but you still haven’t told me why you came back to therapy.”

“Do I need a reason?” He’s being petulant, but he can’t seem to stop himself. 

“No,” Frank acknowledges, “but I suspect you have one.”

Eddie watches the traffic out the window, mentally calculating how much of each wasted second is costing him after insurance. Money that could be going to his son or abuela. 

“There was a call. A guy tried to commit suicide, only it didn’t happen right away. I couldn’t...I couldn’t seem to shake it. I didn’t like that I couldn’t shake it.” 

“Why do you think it stuck with you?”

“Because...because in a different world that could have been me. If I didn’t if I didn’t have Christopher, if I didn’t have a purpose.”

“What about your own life? Your own happiness? Don’t you think you should live for yourself?”

“Christopher is my happiness. He _is_ my life.”

“That’s a lot to put on a kid,” Frank offers gently and he sees red. 

“I’m not putting that on him,” he snaps, hands curling into fists. 

“Eddie, I’m not saying that to judge you,” Frank offers, raising his hands up in peace. “But Christopher is getting older, isn’t he? Getting more independent. What happens when he leaves for college? What keeps you going then?”

Eddie feels a chill and blames it on an air conditioner that isn’t even on. “I have my job.”

“And when you retire?”

“Hopefully I’ll have grandchildren.”

“Eddie,” Frank sighs with a half laugh. “You can’t just live for others. You deserve to also live for yourself. You deserve to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

“Are you?”

“I’m happier than I’ve ever been,” Eddie insists. He _is_. He has his son. Buck. Christopher _and Buck_. People that love him. He’s not selfish enough to ask for more. 

“But are you _happy_?”

Eddie opens his mouth, trying to find an answer. _Just say yes._ But is he happy? Does he even know what that is? “I’m as happy as I know how to be.”

Frank gives him a sad smile as if he had been expecting that answer all along. “Eddie, I want to ask you an uncomfortable question and I hope that you can be honest with me. Have you ever thought about committing suicide?” 

Eddie tenses sharply and Frank has his answer. He knows Frank has his answer. He closes his eyes, not wanting to see whatever look may be on Frank’s face. 

“Only once. For thirty seconds. No more and never again,” he says, feeling his voice breaking. Water builds behind his eyelids, but he wills the tears inside. 

“What happened, Eddie? What brought you to that place?” 

_“Buck, hey, what are you doing here? Are you okay? Wait. Where’s Christopher?_

_“Ed - Eddie…”_

_“Why do you have his glasses?”_

_“He um me and Christopher we were at the beach and um and listen to me okay I-I swear to you, okay, I-I tried. And it-it just and b--but I-I-I, Eddie I-I-I don’t know how to say it, uh-he-he just vanished.”_

“I thought...There was a...I—”

His son’s glasses were around his best friend’s neck. His best friend who was bloody and heartbroken. Buck would have done anything for Christopher. If he couldn’t save him then— His son was so strong, the strongest person he had ever met, but he was only a little boy. What could a little boy do against the entire ocean?

At that moment he knew. He knew his son was dead. That he had died scared and alone, his lungs burning on salt water as he screamed for help that wouldn’t come. As his tiny hand reached out for his father that didn’t even know he was dying. Shouldn’t he have known that he was dying?

He promised he would never leave him. He promised they would be together. 

But he hadn’t been. 

So his son died alone. He had failed him. Again. Only this time he couldn’t try to make things right. His last act as a father was to fail him. 

“Eddie, I know how much you love your son. That’s why I know you’re going to do what’s right for him. Don’t drag him down with you, Eddie.” 

Don’t drag him down with you. Don’t drag him down. Don’t drag him down. 

The waves may have dragged him down, but it was his choices that brought his son to the ocean’s arms. 

He’d have been safe in Texas. He’d have been warm and safe and dry, but he had stolen that from him. He had stolen that from him and now he was dead. 

Everything he had done had been for Christopher. Without Christopher, what was the point? But maybe, maybe if he went out to the ocean it would drag him down too. It would take him out to his boy so they could be together; so Chris wouldn’t have to be alone. 

In that moment he had a plan. He knew what he had to do. He hadn’t been scared or worried. He had been resolved. 

And then his son was there. 

Because Buck had saved him. 

“I thought my son was dead. I thought he drowned in the tsunami and there wasn’t any point anymore.”

“Any point to what?”

“Me.” 

“Eddie, your life has value. _You_ have value.”

“But without Chris,” he starts, his tears burning a trail of shame down his face.

“Even without Chris,” Frank says, stern, but gently. “You matter, Eddie. Outside of being a father. Outside of being a firefighter or a friend. _You_ matter. I appreciate you being honest with me, now I ask for your trust. Trust me to help you figure out how to see your own worth.” 

“Yeah, and how do we do that?”

“We keep having these sessions. You keep being honest. I also think it’s time we talked about antidepressants.” 

“You think I need to be medicated?” He bristles at the thought. Crazy pills, isn’t that what his dad called them? _Everyone gets sad, you don’t need a pill because you’ve had a bad day._

“I think it could help.”

“For how long?” He doesn’t want to take anything. He doesn’t want to be the guy who needs pills, but he also doesn’t want to keep feeling this way. 

“Until it stops helping. Some people only need it for a time, others will always need it. There is no shame either way.”

Eddie snorts, harsh and ugly. 

“Do you think it’s shameful that your son needs crutches?”

“ _What_? Of course not.”

“Because he needs assistance, right? A tool to make his life easier. So he doesn’t have to suffer unnecessarily. That’s all this is, Eddie. A tool to help you.”

A bitter pill to swallow. 

There’s a joke there somewhere, but he’s not ready to laugh at it just yet.

* * *

There is no such thing as a magic pill.

At least, not one that Frank has given him. 

It takes three months before they find the right fit that doesn’t make him too drowsy on the job or seems to do anything at all. The sun doesn’t suddenly shine brighter and woodland creatures don’t start singing to him. It’s more like...it’s more like there had been a weight settled on his chest, only it had been there so long he sort of forgot about it. Now the weight was being lifted and he could suddenly breathe easier. 

It’s not a fix, but it’s a step. 

He’s still going to therapy. He’s still going to group. 

Sometimes he still feels guilty for needing time away from Christopher to do these things, but it’s fewer and farther between. 

He’s becoming a better dad, he thinks. A better friend. He hopes, one day, to be a better significant other. More patient. Better about asking what’s wrong instead of waiting to be told. 

For the first time in a long time he’s thinking about the future. Thinking about what he wants, what he hopes for. 

He thinks about Buck. 

Buck with his giant heart that he offers freely. Buck who lets him hold him after the bad days, whispering him soft nothings in his hair like he does for Chris. Buck who is the worst fucking patient in the world when he’s sick, but he loves him anyway. 

And he does. He loves him. Has loved him for a long time, really. 

Loved him enough to not pursue anything. To think that was what was best for him. 

_”No offense, Eddie, but who are you to make that choice for him?”_

_“His best friend.” Sometimes he really hates Frank._

_“Doesn’t he deserve to have a say? Doesn’t he deserve a chance to be with someone who loves him if that’s what he wants?”_

_“I’ll drag him down.”_

_“How?”_

_“I don’t know, but I will. He deserves better than that. Better than me and my baggage.”_

_“Buck doesn’t come with any baggage? Think Eddie, do you begrudge him for any of it? If Buck is as great as you say he is, what makes you think he’ll judge you for yours?”_

He has this dream. He’s falling, reaching out for Buck. Buck, being Buck, reaches out to him, grabs his hand. They both start falling. He screams at him to let go, but he won’t. 

He doesn’t want to drag him down with him. 

_“Did you ever think that he’s reaching out for you as much as you’re reaching out for him? That falling doesn’t have to be a bad thing? That maybe being together is better than the alternative?_

“Ready for some video game therapy,” Buck asks, all cocky swagger as he stands too close as always. 

“My favorite kind.” 

“Did you have a good session with Frank?” He asks because he cares, because he wants to know and Eddie honestly can’t understand how he lucked out enough to have Buck in his life. 

“Hasn’t kicked me out yet.”

“You grow on people,” Buck replies, wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, warm and safe. He’s been doing this a lot more lately: touching him. Eddie has done nothing to stop him. It’s nice to be touched. It’s a revelation to be touched by someone who cares about you. “Plus, you’re paying him.”

Eddie laughs. “That must be it. What does that say about you that you put up with me for free?”

“Not for free! You bought pizza.”

“I forgot, you’re willing to take payment in food,” Eddie teases, bumping Buck’s hip with his own. He swallows his nerves and tries not to think about the amount of therapy he’s going to need if this blows up in his face. 

He deserves to be happy. He can be happy. He can make someone else happy. 

“Guess that means I should take you out to dinner.”

“We’re eating dinner now,” Buck points out. He’s not sure if he wants to shake him or kiss him. Maybe both. Definitely at least one. 

“But maybe I should take you out. For dinner. On a date.” 

It’s almost comical how wide Buck’s eyes get. He’d laugh if his heart hadn’t jumped in his throat and gotten lodged there. 

“A date. Like a _date_ date?”

“Like a _date_ date,” he says, going for casual and falling just shy of regretting every single life choice he has ever made in his entire life. 

“You like me,” Buck says and the fucker is _gloating_. 

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he crows, stepping in front of Eddie and pulling him in close. “You _like_ me. You want to _kiss_ me.”

“Are you actually making a movie reference right now? You _know_ a movie reference?”

“Hey, I’ve seen movies,” Buck retorts. “Don’t distract me. We’re teasing you now.”

Eddie groans, dropping his forehead against Buck’s firm shoulder, painfully aware of how good he smells. 

“So, where are you taking me?”

Eddie raises his head slowly, scanning Buck’s face for any sign of a trick. Buck’s not that mean spirited, but he has prepared his awkward ‘I’ve been rejected, but nothing has to change’ speech so many times he’s not quite sure what to do now. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d love to go on a date with you.” 

He couldn’t wait to tell Frank about this.


End file.
